


Trails

by orphan_account



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-10 15:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6992299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forced to fight a war he considered useless, relegated to the point furthest from the axis of power, Francis Underwood is a man with a plan that could take him from the dust of North Texas to the White House.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've never read a HoC au, at least not like this little experiment. I hope it works. It isn't very historically accurate but if you notice anything that needs a change, let me know. Or you can just chalk it off to the differences of another universe.

The two men on horseback crest the low rolling hill, coming to a halt as they gauge their options. The older of the two adjusts his hat against the light of the setting sun as he scans the horizon for hints of danger. They are traveling northwest, to Colorado, where Francis Underwood hopes to find aid in his endeavors, a plan both epic in scale and outlandishly, impossibly bold, which might just catapult him and his from the dingiest zettlement in the Texas to the very White House itself. 

Of course, at this very moment, aching from an unaccustomed twelve hours in the saddle, he finds himself longing for the large feather bed beneath his own roof, and the long, silky embrace of his beautiful wife. 

It could be worse. 

Francis smiles at his compadre, the man who had guarded his back during the Battle of Antioch, where they had eluded death only thanks to Edward’s constant vigilance and superior shot.  
He could do much worse for a bedroll companion. Edward doesn’t snore, nor does he steal covers, even when he sleeps between Francis and Claire on that very comfortable bed. 

"We'll camp here for the night."

Francis patiently waits as Edward turns in his saddle, practically sniffing the air for danger. There’s a burbling stream nearby, a necessity for the exhausted horses. Plenty of good grass, too, and flat rocks enough for a safe campfire. Edward nods, dismounting. Francis tries not to groan as he slides limply from the saddle, his ass chafed and in sore need of a good rub down. 

*

By the time Edward’s done bedding down the horses, the fire Francis has built has burned down to embers. There's a pot full of baked beans bubbling away as a cast iron skillet of corn bread bakes to a golden brown. 

"You hungry?" It's a needless question to ask; all they've had since dawn were a series of rough sandwiches, bread folded around hunks of bacon and farm cheese, a flask of cold coffee shared between them as they rode, stopping only to rest the horses and for the impossible to avoid calls of nature.

"Starving, " Edward answers, his voice warm and laced with innuendo. 

"First things first, " Francis chuckles, serving Edward before himself, not only for politeness sake but as an acknowledgement of the man’s worth. There’s no one he trusts more, not even Claire, and if there are little things Francis can do to show his appreciation, he'll do them without question. A man like Edward is impossible to spoil but that doesn't mean that Francis won't keep trying. He crumbles a large wedge of the cornbread into Edward’s deep sided blue enamel plate, scooping half of the beans on top. He serves himself next but waits to start, a great welling of pleasure growing as he watches Edward tuck in to his supper.

"I love watching you eat," Francis explains, his voice sweet and drawling, the South Carolina accent he tends to hide flavoring his words. Another man, one like Doug Stamper or Seth Grayson, might have come up with a suitable double entendre but Edward is a quiet man and all he can do is blush. Meaning travels between them without words, years of mutual dependence and companionship rendering them practically unnecessary. Francis knows without asking that Edward has a jar of french hand cream (a staple of Claire's bordello) packed in his saddle bags, a necessity if there is any fucking to be done on the long, lonesome trip to Colorado, where Francis hopes to find the aid he so desperately needs from a former classmate...a former lover.

As if reading his mind, Edward puts down his empty plates and speaks. "Do you think he'll help? Our Tim?"

The Tim Corbet that Francis remembers is smart, quick on his feet and slow to anger, a calm buffer that more than once kept Francis from being expelled from the Sentinel. Moreover, Tim was kind, a gentle young man who only reluctantly studied the art of war, a promise to a dying father. Settling in Colorado after the war, Tim had the forethought to build a series of river crossings, the tolls of which making him richer than God and therefore, Francis hopes, able finance at Francis's machiavellian plans.

"He's still be a good man," Francis replies, soothing Edward's worry with a quick kiss. "Better than me, that's for certain."

"No one could be better," Edward softly replies, stacking the dishes first before unbuttoning his shirt. Standing up, the dying light of the fire playing shadows across his lean, scarred torso, Edward pulls off his boots and strips out of his dungarees. His cock bounces, his balls pulling tight as he poses briefly, not because of vanity, of which he has none, but for Francis's pleasure.

"Come," Francis growls, turning over onto his hands and knees, a saddle below him for support as he tilts his ass just so. Cold slick, anointed by Edward's long, calloused fingers, eases the way as the younger man enters him, the supple leather of the saddle creaking a melody as they rut beneath the light of the moon.


	2. Chapter 2

_(One month earlier)_

"Is he back?" Claire Underwood adjusts the doily on the table nervously, waiting for the answer.

"Not yet. The stagecoach is running late. With this freezing weather, the road is slicker than a street hooker's quim."

"You should know, " she teases, brushing her lips against the crown of her husband’s head.

Francis laughs, pulling her on to his lap. "I'll have you know that I am a man of discriminating taste and consort with only the highest quality courtesans."

Their banter might have continued if Edward Meechum hadn’t stumbled into the private quarters on the hotel's third floor, his cowboy hat and duster crusted with sleet.

"Sir. M'am." He nods deferentially, removing his hat. Edward's cheeks are hectic with color, a spate of hoarse coughs preventing him from saying anything further.

Francis turns to his wife to ask that she call upon the kitchen for a pot of hot tea or a bowl of soup but she's already moving down the stairs, their intentions synchronized, a frequent event that tends to startle those not intimately familiar with the handsome, ambitious couple. Edward is nonplussed; he’s been the grateful recipient of their combined efforts for years, in and out of their bedroom and it's no surprise, their silent tandem efforts.

Francis deposits a towel atop his head, rubbing briskly before bidding the younger man to stand. He makes quick work of buttons, stripping Edward to the waist before stopping, his hands hovering over the silver and turquoise buckle, the last thing keeping cold, wet denim trousers from puddling to the floor.  But first, he winces, placing a hand to Edward’s ribs, almost covering a dusky purple bruise that stands in high relief to alabaster white of his skin.

Edward bites back a cry of pain, the sealed envelope that he's come so far to deliver, slipping from his fingers.

"The message, Sir...."

Francis clucks his tongue, the buckle managed, the thick belt sliding with the promising whisper of leather against denim. "What sort of man would I be if I didn't see to you first?"

It's a rhetorical question, of course; the former - general's soft, musical voice succeeding at calming Edward’s dark, worried eyes. Now draped in a blanket, his nudity covered, he takes a seat near the fire as Claire returns, a tray of of hot food and even hotter coffee in her hands.

If _she's_ worried about the message, she doesn't betray it; like Francis, her sole concentration is focused on relieving their companion's discomfort.

"We hit a patch of black ice and the stagecoach tupped over," Edward explains after scraping clean his bowl of stew. "Lucky I didn't break something " he continues shyly as Claire insists on kissing his bruised chest.

"Black ice is so dangerous," she murmurs, placing an additional kiss there. "You can't be too careful."

Edward comfortable, there's nothing stopping them from reading the message from Garrett Walker, his decision on whether or not to appoint Francis to the position that he's coveted so so long, that they have worked so hard for...

The envelope rips as Francis removes the page. He reads, his face growing pale as he shreds the document in two, rolling the pieces into a ball which he tosses into the fire.

"Oh, Francis," Claire sighs, her arms circling Edward’s waist as a litany of blasphemous oaths spill from h er husband's lips.

"He's going with Russo. The cock-sucking whoreson is going with Peter Russo after all we've done for him. All the sacrifices..."

He kicks over the low table in front of the couch where Claire and Edward are seated, sending dishes and silverware flying. There's silence for a dozen heartbeats before Claire steps over broken shards of pottery to reach her husband’s side, her lips twitching.

"What are you smiling about, "Francis growls, shrinking from Claire's soft, stroking hands as if there's no comforting him. She laughs, refusing to let him go.

"Don't you see, darling? If you don't like the way the table is set, turn over the table."

His tight expression of anguish relaxes infinitesimally as Francis turns the idea over, a look of unquenchable determination taking t's place. "You mean..."

"We can fight this, Francis. If there's one thing I know it's that I didn't marry a quitter." He strokes his chin, cogs and gears churning.

"There's a lot of planning to do. Long nights, little sleep."

"That doesn't worry me," Claire answers agreeably, her eyes brightening at the thought of taking down the man who was careless enough to believe that he could best the Underwoods.

"I pity the man who thinks that he can put me on my back, who thinks he's man enough to fuck me," Francis swears, a soft cough shaking him from his reverie.  Laughing, really laughing, Francis faces Edward, pulling him to his feet, the blanket hitting the floor as he tips onto his toes to kiss him. "Present company excluded, of course."

"Of course, " Edward agrees, allowing two sets of hands to glide across his smooth, hardening flesh.

"Russo, first?" asks Claire, her voice scarcely rising over small, contented grunts and moans.

"Yes," replies Francis, freeing Claire's breasts from the whalebone corset that she doesn't need to keep perfect her slender, graceful figure.

"Yes," Edward agrees, to the Underwood's shock and pleasure. "And I know exactly what to do. "


	3. Chapter 3

The plan comes together as they do, tangled together in bed, Edward between them as Claire and Francis vie to provide the warmest welcome. "We've missed you, " Claire tells him as she guides Edward’s fingers between her thighs while Francis laps greedily st his slit, at the free flow of slick that signals the younger man’s arousal. 

"I've made due with Doug and Seth this past week," pronounces Francis, licking his lips with exaggerated gusto, "But there’s none so sweet as you."

"We'll send Doug to Dallas, this time. Cathy's always had a fondness for him. " Claire decides as she retrieves a jar of lubricant from the cabinet next to the bed. She hands it to her husband, who grins. "With my gold and Doug's silver tongue, I'm sure that she'll be willing to lend us one of her working girls. Someone young and fresh enough to bait our trap."  
Francis's oiled fingers begin caressing her rosebud, patiently.circling the tight circle until the tip of his forefinger slips inside. "Thanks to Edward’s impressive bit of cunning, the good Reverend Russo won't know what hit him. And by the time he figures it out, there won't be a God-fearing soul in Texas willing to have him represent them."

Francis dips his fingers back into the jar, this time to slather slick across the impressive length and girth of Edward’s prick. He pushes Edward off the bed with a good natured groan, giving his own dick a few lazy pumps before scooting to the edge of the mattress, his knees bent so that his lower legs hang down. "Climb aboard, darlin'," he says to Claire, helping her to straddle on top of him, his erection seated securely in her quim. "Let Edward and I take you for a ride."

It's not the first time they ve done this, more likely the hundredth or more, though none of the three keeps count. It's the harmony that matters, the coming together of three bodies, three hearts, three voices. It is Edward, the quietest, whose sets the tune, his keening pleasures reverberating as he starts to rock inside her, his balls slapping companionably against Francis's. Stuffed, Claire shakes, her orgasms shaking the men, her gripping muscles coaxing them to follow her to the peak and beyond. It's been like this from the start, for hadn’t Edward, at first just a silent shadow of the brash Harvard student, courted her as well?


End file.
